Stjepan’s smile widened, a predatory gleam in his eyes. The obsidian blade, its venomous tip humming faintly, moved with surprising speed. Mirela, still gripping the accounts, scrambled back, knocking against the heavy oak desk. The air reeked of bruised nightshade. “Thief, Jovic?” Stjepan repeated, his voice now a low growl, devoid of its earlier slur. “Or perhaps you were just… curious about my affairs? What did you hope to find, exactly? Proof of your family’s fealty?” He lunged, not with a flourish, but a sharp, precise jab. Mirela instinctively threw up her arm, the ledger acting as a flimsy shield. The blade's tip scraped across the calfskin volume, leaving a thin, toxic green streak. The force of the blow wrenched her wrist, and the accounts flew from her grasp, skittering across the polished floorboards. Disarmed, Mirela pressed herself against the desk, her pulse thumping against her ribs. Her gaze darted across the floor, searching for an edge. Stjepan wasn't just some drunken fool; he was a trained mountain combatant, albeit one who preferred to buy his victories. “The debt,” she managed, her voice tight, “It’s a lie. A calculated theft of souls.” Stjepan stopped, a flicker of genuine surprise crossing his face before it contorted into a sneer. “Souls? Such dramatics, Jovic. It’s simply… business. Our esteemed Guild Master Zoran has many such arrangements. Profitable for all involved, wouldn’t you agree?” He took another step, the blade weaving a toxic green arc in the air. Mirela saw the true malice in his gaze now, cold and absolute. This wasn't about the records anymore. This was about power, about silencing anyone who dared to question the established order. She lunged, not at him, but for a heavy bronze inkwell on the desk, intending to throw it. But Stjepan was faster. His hand shot out, grabbing her arm. The obsidian point, wet with bile-hued venom, bit into her throat, just beneath her jawline. Cold steel dented her flesh. Air rattled shallowly in her throat. *** Far below, in the bone-chilling depths of the Echoing Oubliette, Dragos Vranic felt a tug. A sudden, violent plunge in a specific life-thread he had painstakingly woven into Mirela’s spiritual signature during their brief, tense encounter in the cathedral. It was a faint, almost imperceptible link, meant only to warn him of immediate, catastrophic danger. The drop he felt now wasn't just danger; it was an active threat to her very existence. The Monarch’s Seed throbbed in his left arm, the dark scales shimmering with an angry, purplish light. Its power roared, mirroring the primal fury that erupted in Dragos’s chest. He had endured the humiliation, the forced isolation, the gnawing corruption. He had kept his temper leashed, his power hidden. But touching her? Threatening her life? That was a line crossed with ruinous consequence. Bratok, still a pup but growing larger by the hour on the raw, mutated meat Dragos had scavenged from the cathedral, nudged his hand. The pup let out a low, mournful whine, sensing his master’s distress. “She’s in danger, little one,” Dragos rasped, his voice raw. He looked at the pup, then at the glowing scales on his arm. This would be a gamble. A terrible, necessary gamble. He pricked a scale with his thumbnail, drawing a single, oily drop of his corrupted, royal blood. The drop pulsed with the raw power of the Seed, a swirling vortex of black and violet. “Drink, Bratok,” Dragos commanded, holding his arm down. “Become what you were meant to be.” The pup hesitated for only a moment, then eagerly lapped at the dark drop. The instant it touched Bratok’s tongue, a violent transformation began. A guttural snarl ripped from the pup’s throat, deepening, expanding. Its small body convulsed, muscles swelling, bones cracking and reshaping with sickening pops. Its fur, previously a soft, smoky grey, darkened to an abyssal black, bristling with an unnatural energy. Its eyes, once innocent and curious, flared with predatory, crimson light. The oubliette walls, thick and reinforced with ancient warding spells, vibrated with the sheer force of the change. Bratok, no longer a pup, stood as a hulking beast, easily twice Dragos’s size, a creature of nightmare. Its snout lengthened into a fearsome maw lined with needle-sharp fangs. A spiked, segmented tail lashed behind it, scraping against the stone floor. It was a shadow-beast, a horror from the deepest, most mist-choked parts of the world, born from the very essence of the end times. [The Weeping Bell tolls… a new path forged. The Hound of Oblivion heeds your call.] The hound lowered its head, nuzzling Dragos’s hand with surprising tenderness despite its terrifying new form. A deep, rumbling purr vibrated through the stone floor. “Good boy,” Dragos murmured, a sliver of affection piercing through his rage. He pointed to the heavy iron gate of their cell, ancient and rusted, secured by a series of arcane locks. “Through it.” The Shadow Mastiff didn’t hesitate. With a feral roar that echoed through the entire lower levels of the fortress, it slammed its massive head into the gate. The ancient iron shrieked in protest, then buckled inward, exploding into a shower of rusted fragments and sparks. The wards, centuries old, shattered like fragile glass. The reverberation shook the very foundations of the Umbral Hearth. “Find her, Bratok!” Dragos commanded, his voice now a cold, lethal whisper. “Find the one who harms what is mine.” The hound bounded forward, a blur of black shadow, its claws tearing gouges in the stone floor. Dragos followed, violet lightning crackling around his left arm. Every Warden, every elite combatant, every powerful mage in Kravna would feel that shockwave. They would know something terrible had been unleashed. They would know fear. They tore through the twisting corridors of the stone compound, an engine of ruin. Bratok’s howls ripped through the quiet halls, punctuated by the rending of doors, the shrieking of metal, and the terrified cries of any guard foolish enough to stand in their path. Dragos moved with a focused, almost serene violence, his hand a blur as he dispatched anyone who attempted to slow them, leaving behind a trail of unconscious, broken bodies. His vision was narrowed, focused only on the fading life-thread, a burning ember guiding him through the architectural maze. Up above, Stjepan Radic pressed the poisoned stiletto harder against Mirela’s throat. A bead of blood, dark and sluggish, welled at the coated tip. “Such a waste,” Stjepan hissed, his voice thick with malicious satisfaction. “A pretty face, a strong arm… all for nothing. Your family’s debt will still fall to you, even in death. And your little rogue friend? He’s rotting in the oubliette, never to know your end.” Mirela closed her eyes, preparing for the inevitable. Her strength was failing, her spirit wavering under the pressure of the blade. A tremor shook the floor, rattling the windowpanes and making the moth-eaten banners sway. A distant, bestial howl tore through the stone, filled with an unimaginable fury. Stjepan paused, a flicker of irritation, then annoyance, on his face. He ignored it, dismissing it as some beast from the lower dungeons. He drew a breath, about to deliver the final, killing thrust. Just then, the heavy oak door to his lavish quarters exploded inward in a geyser of black mist and splintered wood. Chunks of timber flew like shrapnel, embedding themselves in the far wall. A massive, shadowy form filled the doorway, its crimson eyes burning with absolute, primal rage. Standing before the terrifying beast, his left arm crackling with violet sparks, his pupils burning with the same dark radiance, was Dragos Vranic. His voice, usually a low murmur, was a guttural snarl that shook the very air. “I told you never to touch what is mine.”

Howl of the Shadow Mastiff